


the dream of what could be

by Jedi Buttercup (jedibuttercup)



Category: King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)
Genre: Family Secrets, Gen, Hope, Post-Movie, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Worldbuilding, Yuletide 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 03:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17113901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/pseuds/Jedi%20Buttercup
Summary: He'd make the best of things, of course; if nothing else, his uncle had been right about his drive.  But Arthur's reign had begun in fire and blood, even as his father's had ended, and he would not forget that.





	the dream of what could be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pasiphile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/gifts).



> Written as a treat in Yuletide 2018. Your headcanon notes about the Mage's identity caught my attention, and I'm afraid it got a little worldbuildy from there. Hope you enjoy! Some background details mixed in from the wider Matter of Britain; title appropriated from a line in Excalibur (1981).

The hours immediately following the sack of Camelot were a tumultuous time for Arthur and his crew. For all that Mordred's forces had once made it to the very gates, and his uncle had usurped its throne with bloodied hands, the castle itself had never before been conquered by force of arms. Arthur had tried to limit the bloodshed by going straight to the top with his own assault, but the resistance members who followed in his wake – and the slaves they freed from the cells under the castle and the pens down by the river – had been more focused on revenge than sifting the innocent from the guilty. Nor was the throne room the only part of the castle newly in need of repair.

"Perhaps I'm not as underqualified for this as I thought," the new king mused the morning after the assault, standing before Vortigern's bloody throne. The pillars bracketing the royal seat were scarred and half-wrecked by the passage of rough scales and, in one case, the slash of a sword; Arthur stared up at the rust-coloured stains radiating from that mark, remembering the press of flagstones against his knees and the burn of venom in his veins, and shook his head. "The law of the strongest."

"The throne was always yours by right," Sir Bedivere replied, a hint of paternal rebuke in his deep, resonant voice. "And there was no other way that would not have resulted in even more lives lost. Your uncle would never have surrendered without a fight."

A wry smile curved Arthur's mouth; he was tempted to repeat what he'd said at their first meeting about _finger-wagging and speeches_ , but he knew Bedivere didn't mean it that way. His father's surviving knights had waited a quarter century for this victory; memory had gilded Uther's reign and demonized Vortigern's by contrast even more than the man himself had done already. Arthur's coming was an article of faith redeemed for them, not the result of a series of violent actions and unhappy consequences carried by a human being with a chequered history of his own.

He'd make the best of things, of course; if nothing else, his uncle had been right about his drive. But Arthur's reign had begun in fire and blood, even as his father's had ended, and he would not forget that. The Mage would no doubt remind him of poisons and remedies; he'd have to take care not to end up on the opposite side of that equation.

"Gather the lads," he said, fingers tapping against the hilt of Excalibur. "And speak to Kay; I won't ask it of her, nor the other girls, but if they're of a mind to help they'll have a better idea how to go about it than George's boys will. Have whoever volunteers scrub this place to the stone and refurnish it from the surviving storerooms, including the throne. Put a couch there or something, no one's ever going to look at me sitting on that thing and _not_ think of my uncle. I want it clean, plainly furnished, and ornamented in my father's colours before any emissaries start arriving."

Bedivere's eyebrows raised as Arthur turned to face him, his gaze cool and even under his cap. He'd worn nothing but shades of red, brown, and gold since he'd rode to the castle to trade Excalibur for the Mage and pave the way for Arthur's return; the symbolism wasn't lost on Uther's son. "The Vikings?"

"The barons, too," Arthur nodded. "I'd rather not start things off with them on the wrong foot. At least... not any worse than I will already."

The wreckage of the last man to oppose him might leave a more lasting message than a firm welcome – but intimidation would make a poor foundation for what would hopefully follow. It would be much easier to wreck a friendship at need than to build a true alliance on fear. Was it arrogance, or privileged upbringing, or his time as a ward among Mordred's people that had led Vortigern to think otherwise? Whatever the cause, Arthur had built his own small empire on the streets of Londinium by very different methods, and saw no reason to change them just because he'd found out who his father was. People were people, after all, no matter the size of their coffers or the number of men who called them Boss.

Bedivere inclined his head. "Much concern has been expressed about the fate of the princess."

Of course there had; Arthur would have been more surprised if it had been otherwise. Vortigern's daughter Catia was the only other legitimate heir to the throne; voluntarily exiled to an abbey she would have been a nonentity, but conveniently missing she would serve as a martyr for all those arrayed against him. "And has anyone found any clues as to where she went?"

"Only a few drops of blood that may not even be hers. Her ladies-in-waiting said they left her with her father after the great snake emerged from the castle, but he had just come from the throne room; he was already marked by battle. The blood trail leads from her rooms to a stairwell, and from there to a passage under the castle, but it dead-ends in a rockfall near the foundations of the tower."

Meaning Vortigern could have used the tunnel alone to reach the altar where Arthur confronted him. But instinct told him that Vortigern's transformation and his daughter's disappearance were linked; more than a few darkly illustrated books of spells and creatures had been found in the former king's chambers, and one thing they all had in common was the relationship between sacrifice and reward. The tower writ small: for what else had that monumental edifice been but the sustained economic sacrifice of all the subjects under Vortigern's control?

_You put me in that brothel. You cut me on the streets._

It felt right; but it wasn't really anything Arthur could articulate to Bedivere.

He fingered Excalibur's hilt again, remembering the pull he'd felt when the illusory Darklands had reverted back to stone walls after Vortigern's collapse, and the way it had barely taken a touch to channel the deep well of magic under his feet and bring it all crashing down around him. He'd barely given it a thought later, attributing the strange ease of the magic to the venom still distorting his perceptions, but what if his uncle had chosen that spot because it was _already_ a site of power?

"I'll have a look. If the Mage was here, I'd ask her first; but if there's dark magic afoot, Excalibur will see me through," he decided.

Bedivere frowned, once more paternally forbidding; then sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. "If you do not return, I will summon her and send her after you," he warned.

"No need to worry," Arthur replied with a grin. "You ought to know by now – I'm not that easy to kill."

* * *

The rockfall proved surprisingly easy to clear; the stones resisted shifting by hand, but thrusting Excalibur into the gaps between them proved a very effective lever. He'd abused the Sword enough the night of the battle to know that nothing he could do by force of arm would blunt or break the enchanted blade; magical cutlery was apparently convenient that way.

He was less surprised when the rocks collapsed again behind him, blocking Del and Wet Stick from following him under the castle. Whatever was down there apparently wanted Arthur to find it, but no-one else was welcome.

The question was, was that because he was of Vortigern's blood, or because he'd defeated the sorcerer king? Either way, if he believed the myths about creatures that dwelt in the dark and demanded tribute, he probably wouldn't be leaving again without _some_ sort of negotiation.

Arthur took a deep breath, calling to his friends on the other side of the blockage to let them know he was all right, then wiped the sweat from his brow and proceeded down the next stairwell. The cool blue radiance of the sword's runes cast wavering shadows on the walls, like the moon shining through a curtain of water; it gave just enough light for him to see the heavy iron door set into the next archway before he ran into it, standing half-open with a key jutting from its lock. A bloody handprint framed the keyhole, nearly black in the sword's glow; Arthur held his own hand up to verify its size, then frowned and edged through the man-made gap.

Beyond the door, the walls of the passageway were largely rough and unfinished, though not completely untouched; the stone underfoot had been hewn into shallow stairs. The air was still, but not stale, and he could hear the faint lapping of water from somewhere below. Had Vortigern – or more likely a mutual ancestor – stumbled onto an ancient site of devotion and built over it to keep it for his own private use?

Now that he thought about it, he seemed to remember some old legend about the ruler of Powys that his uncle had been named for trying to build a tower that kept falling down, and his men seizing a child called Ambrosius as a sacrifice to stop the curse. No doubt it had been one of Arthur's nursery tales as a child. There'd been something about a pool with serpents trapped beneath, and Ambrosius pulling a prophecy out of his arse to save his own life. If Ambrosius Aurelianus, father of Uther and Vortigern, really was that same Ambrosius... well, Arthur rather wished he'd had a chance to meet the man. Clearly, he'd been a fast-talking con man of the first order.

The fine hairs rose on the backs of his arms as he continued downward, and he tightened his grip on the sword. The further he went, the fewer signs of manmade intervention were visible – until he turned a corner and found himself facing a vast still lake, illuminated by narrow shafts of light. The stairs continued from there down into the water, flanked by a set of pillars carved with open-mouthed faces, and a heavy bell hung just within reach of the lowest step.

It was obvious what a visitor was meant to do. Arthur hesitated briefly, then sheathed Excalibur again and cautiously set his hand to the bell rope. There were dark stains there as well, but no sign of a body; if Catia had been brought to that place, Vortigern must have cast her into the water. Just like his mother, knocked off the docks by his uncle's spear... and likely his aunt Elsa as well. According to Bedivere and Bill, she'd disappeared the same night as Uther and Igraine, and had later been proclaimed a martyr by Vortigern: his excuse for seizing the crown. From the looks of things, though, it must have been the other way around.

Did whatever power lived here deal exclusively in the blood of family? If so, it would be shit out of luck where he was concerned. He smiled grimly, then leaned on the rope, sending a deep, tolling note out over the dark water.

A light rain of pebbles fell at the sound, pattering into the lake near the water's edge; then a splash sounded from further away, and a series of ripples formed in the distance. They formed into a vee like the wake of a boat, cutting ever closer to the stairwell, then came to a halt a few paces distant. A writhing mass of tentacles emerged from the disturbance, as wide around as his thighs at their base and longer than he was tall; they mounded several feet above the water's surface, then parted to reveal the face and naked torso of what could only be a syren. Her eyes widened at the sight of him; she looked more pleased than alarmed, but clearly, something about his appearance had surprised her.

"So the born king has come at last," she said, in a drawling voice a little deep for a woman's. 

Her tentacles writhed and rearranged themselves further as she spoke, exposing two younger syrens cuddled next to her. He scanned their faces closely, out of sudden dismayed suspicion, but neither one resembled any member of the royal family he had seen; at least that fate had been spared his cousin.

"So handsome," one of them said after a moment, peeling away from the other two to dive back below the surface of the water. The other followed, emerging closer to the foot of the stairs with her sister, propping her breasts and forearms on a shelf of rock to stare enticingly up at him. "So much more powerful than your uncle already."

Even if he hadn't already been too familiar with the sight of female anatomy to be distracted by the display, the predatory light in the syrens' eyes would have put him off immediately. He retreated back up a step, wary of staying within their reach. "Yeah, well, I didn't come down here because I need someone else to tell me that I'm pretty. I'm looking for my cousin – the princess."

The oldest syren's mouth curved in a wry, knowing smile. "Then it is your _desire_ to find her?"

Arthur could practically smell the hook baited under those words; he'd spent too many years making deals not to have a pretty good idea what a simple 'yes' would get him. "No offense, but I think I'd better hear what _desire_ might cost me before I go asking you ladies for any favours."

Her eyes widened again; had she really thought he'd come down here on _purpose_? Perhaps they hadn't been behind the castle's 'invitation', after all. Could a place have its own spirit of intention? Something else to ask the Mage, later.

"Nothing that is not worth the cost," she said after a moment, almost purring the words. "To find a Queen for your throne, to halt the unrest of your uncle's loyalists, to consolidate your own power – it would be very little to ask in exchange."

In other words, objectionable enough not to mention until they'd already talked him around to their side. Considering what he'd already guessed, that came as no surprise. "And what did my uncle ask, in exchange for that little _nothing_?" he replied, pointedly fingering the hilt of Excalibur.

The younger syrens pushed back into the water, swimming just a bit further out of reach. "You already know," one of them hissed at him, flipping over to dive back toward her oldest sister. "Power. And a means to counter magic's bane," the other added, nodding at the sword before following likewise.

Arthur had wondered why the devil form, in particular; apparently, it had been more than merely a means to add strength to his arm and create fear in his foe. It made him wonder how desperate Merlin must have been, to put a weapon that could cut him as well as their joint foe in Uther's hands. Even if Vortigern hadn't played them false, how could he have known the next generation would be any better?

"I've already guessed what price _he_ paid," he said, dryly. "No need to be coy about it. I'm a reasonable man, and he's already answered for those crimes."

The chief syren's expression had soured, but she answered readily enough. "You call it a crime. But balance is a law which must not be transgressed. Surely you agree – you who carry that sword – that a gift beyond mortal ken must be paid for with equal coin." 

One of the others pushed away from her again, and continued, still trying to reel him in. "For the life of a princess – and the future of your kingdom – the blood of a loved one, spilt in these waters, is little enough to ask."

Arthur gritted his teeth, reminded of the moment on the cliff when he'd tried to toss Excalibur away – and of his mother's face in his nightmares, falling backward into the river. It was the wrong tack to try with him, but he could see how some men might be tempted. Had his father ever spoken to them – or had they had any influence on the unusually vast and swiftly raised fortifications of Camelot, given the fact that his grandfather had apparently included access to their pool in his construction? He wasn't sure he wanted to know. Any lesson his ancestors might have intended was as lost to him as Merlin's rationale for forging a mage-killing sword with no obvious check on its power.

"Well that depends, doesn't it," he forced himself to speak calmly, "on how much blood must be shed, and what you mean by 'love'. If I can trot any of the lads down here and ask him to prick a finger for the cause, I just might be able to find you a few volunteers."

"You know the answer to that as well, my lord," the oldest syren chuckled. "Would anything less than lifesblood balance the scales? Or one not a potential source of life herself, bound to the requester by blood or eternal vow, be a significant enough cost? Ask her yourself; even she would not disagree." 

Ask... _her_? Arthur inhaled sharply at those words, his careful reign on his emotions and negotiating skill both knocked awry by the syren's careless reference.

"I'm afraid you've overstepped yourself there," he said, lightly. "For I have neither wife, nor mother, nor daughter to offer." Even in the brothel, he'd made certain of that. So she must be referring to something... else, something no one around him had even hinted at.

"How quickly the tales of the victors change their tunes," she replied, smirk deepening. "Have your loyal subjects not told you of the queen's first husband?"

"Of her daughter, born to a lord who carried mage blood?" the others echoed. "Of the king who coveted a liegeman's bride?"

"Has _she_ not told you of the blood you share?" the first syren tsk'ed again, then paused, making a casting-away gesture. "But perhaps she knew this meeting was... inevitable."

The obvious implication left a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. They were trying to hint that the Mage was his sister. They were trying to hint that she _knew_ she was, and didn't trust him not to use the knowledge against her. That perhaps even others knew, and hadn't told him, either.

But none of that erased the fact that they _wanted_ him to offer them a sacrifice; that it would be to their benefit to encourage him to think doing so was in his best interests. _Where there is poison_ , he remembered again, and swallowed thickly.

Then he drew Excalibur, holding the enchanted sword out over the water.

All three syrens reacted to the gesture, the elder narrowing her eyes and the other two slipping back under her embracing tentacles, but none of them tried to escape; confirmation enough that they were beyond any human measure of understanding or control. What would they have done if Vortigern had actually won ownership of the blade, and inevitably sought to prevent anyone else from gaining power through similar methods? Something else the Sword couldn't easily counter, no doubt. Well, at least the kingdom wouldn't have suffered his rule much longer, if Arthur _had_ failed.

He gave them a tight smile, then drew the edge of his other hand carefully along the blade's edge, drawing a few dark drops to the surface of his skin. He squeezed his fist, letting the blood drip into the underground lake, then wiped the stained edge against the hem of his tunic.

"For the answers, both asked and unbidden." Whatever sort of creatures they were, he didn't want to appear ungrateful; he knew those types of stories as well as anyone, and while they might prefer lifesblood for bigger favours, he didn't think they'd turn down a more modest offering in exchange for a bit of conversation. "I will think on your words. But I've left my people to worry long enough."

The eldest syren inclined her head, as if an opponent conceding a well-earned defeat; she stirred the fingers of one hand in the water, then touched them to her lips. "If you do desire our help... you know the price."

Then she sank back into the water, taking her sisters with her, and swam away as swiftly as they'd first arrived.

Arthur shook himself as they vanished, ridding himself of the unease they'd left behind. If this was what it meant to be king, he'd much prefer to turn back time to the day when Lucy had run afoul of the Vikings, Bill had picked the wrong place to hide, and someone had caught Blue painting a rebel symbol and reported him to the Blacklegs. If that storm of ill luck hadn't struck at just the wrong time....

Well, he might as well wish Vortigern had never studied with the mages in the first place – or never learned to love power more than his own family. Or that Uther had won his duel with his brother, all those years ago – or managed to send his wife and son away before Vortigern slew him. Or that Ambrosius had never had a second son in the first place – or left this cave open for that son to find. Arthur doubted even the syrens could roll back the path of the sun in the heavens. It was what it was.

 _You will face it when it is worth it to you_ , he remembered the Mage saying. And his father: _You don't need to run anymore. You don't need to look away._

So, he had a sister. Well, that was something he hadn't been able to say this morning.

He smiled wryly to himself, then turned and headed back up the stairs.

* * *

The rockfall cleared even more easily the second time round. The slight cut on the heel of his hand hadn't sealed yet; he considered the bloodstains he'd found on the way down, then touched his bloody palm to the rough heap of stone and brick blocking up the passage, and the entire castle shook under his feet in a brief, sharp tremor. The rocks fell away, and shouts went up as the men on the other side hastily cleared them out of the way.

Del and Wet Stick weren't the only ones waiting anymore; the clearing dust revealed the stern form of Bedivere, arms crossed and expression set in dire displeasure.

Arthur snorted as he slid Excalibur back into its sheath. "Told you I wasn't that easy to kill."

Bedivere refocused his attention on the lads, and they took one look before throwing an apologetic glance Arthur's way and clearing out of the corridor. The moment they were gone, Bedivere shook his head and heaved a sigh. "Let's hear it, then. Was it worth risking the security of the kingdom?" 

The lack of lecture was probably more effective than an actual one would have been; Arthur winced at the long-suffering tone and retreated to close the old door behind him, taking the key out of the lock. "There's an old shrine down there; the one from the original legends about Ambrosius, unless I miss my guess. The, ah, _patrons_ told me what happened to Catia and her mother, but it's probably not a good idea to spread it around. I'll put the key somewhere safe, but we'll need to wall off this corridor, unless you fancy someone else taking a short-cut to power a generation or so from now."

"Vortigern," Bedivere surmised, darkly.

"Yeah. He wanted a means to beat the Sword. My father told him, just before he died, that whatever price he paid – the cost would be more than he knew. Wouldn't be surprised if he knew about this place, too."

Something about the way he said that caught Bedivere's attention; the older knight gave him a sharp look, and his frown deepened. "What else."

"What d'you mean, what else? It's not enough to find out my grandfather built his castle on blood and power, just like every other would-be warlord in Britain, and left it there for anyone else to find?" he replied, sourly. The syren's hints about his mother's first husband and his fate hadn't left him; he didn't want to believe his parents' marriage had been founded on such grounds, but they'd died far before he ever had a chance to know them as real people. It was entirely possible his father and his uncle hadn't been as different as the matter of the Sword had led him to believe.

Did Bedivere know? Would anyone ever have told him?

Bedivere pursed his mouth, still studying Arthur's expression, then set his jaw, frustration fading into something far more intense and focused. "Whatever you were told down there," he said, quietly. "Whatever dark words were whispered in your ear: know that your father was a good man. He married your mother for alliance, not love; but love grew between them, and he would never have sacrificed anyone for power. One of his last orders was that there should be peace; he had no desire to be High King, or punish all the other mages for what Mordred had done."

Arthur considered that; he believed Bedivere believed that, but there was one question yet to ask. If anyone knew, he and Bill would; and there was no excuse for keeping it from him. "Was anyone ever going to tell me that I have a sister?"

"Have?" Bedivere's eyebrows flew up at the accusation. "As far as any of us know, you don't. Your mother was married to a lord of Cornwall before your father, it's true; but Gorlois died in one of the many coastal incursions that plagued the island in those days, fighting alongside your father. She had sent their daughter to her husband's mother's people, for safety she said; it was for the sake of Morgan's inheritance that she refused your father's suit afterward. But around the time of Mordred's rise, it was reported that the place where she was staying had been razed, with no survivors. Igraine brought all her lands and husband's men to Uther as dowry the next day, and was at his side until the war was over. If anyone had any knowledge that your sister had survived, none ever spoke of it."

 _The place where she was staying_. Arthur remembered the ruins of the old tower in the Darklands; the skulls he'd passed on his way to the altar stone. If no one else had known she was a mage at the time, and no mage had felt safe reaching out to the rebels until Arthur came....

He grimaced. Either way, it wasn't his secret to expose, not until he'd talked to her about it. "The syrens seemed to think she did. Maybe the Mage can help me find her, once all the rest of this mess is settled. Anything else I missed while I was down there?"

Bedivere studied his face for a moment, then cracked a reluctant smile. "Many things. But two, I think, that you will be pleased to hear."

"Really? Well, come on then; tell me." They'd stood in that draughty corridor long enough; Arthur gestured past Bedivere, then started heading back into the main body of the castle. "I could use some good news just now."

"First – Maggie finished the inventory of the dungeons," Bedivere replied, turning to walk beside him. "We've secured most of the Blacklegs who fought; you'll have to deal with them later. But there were a few survivors your men recognized, from Londinium – and another we thought was dead. Rubio."

Arthur blew out a relieved breath. One less weight on his conscience. "Great. That _is_ good news. And what's the second thing?"

"Down in the storerooms, we found a Blackleg Sergeant guarding a locked door. He said he knew you; and that you'd want to know what was behind it. According to him, he insisted on being the one to move your coffers?"

The image of Jack's Eye grimly watching the flow of events and deciding to guard Arthur's money in the conviction that he'd eventually come out on top surprised a laugh out of him, and he shook his head. "Even better. Good ol' Jack. As much as Vortigern was spending on that tower, I'd wondered where the funds for repairs and a coronation and next year's wages for the soldiers were going to come from. Those coffers might not be much against a whole kingdom's needs, but they'll do for a start."

Bedivere's brow furrowed. "I thought he was exaggerating, trying to preserve some of his men's ill-gotten gains; how much did you save, anyway?"

Arthur remembered sitting on the floor of that very dungeon, his uncle's smug voice ringing in his ears: _your achievements now stand as your prosecution_. The rebels never had really seen him in his element before the assault on the castle, had they? Not the way Vortigern's men had. Percival and company had plucked him out from under the executioner's axe, then penned him up in a cave in the hills; the occasional raid hadn't really been enough to fill them in on the full scope of his experience. A far cry from hearing _they burnt down the bridge_ to realizing what it meant that the king's men would destroy such a valuable piece of property to punish one person, and that the survivors had still rallied to Arthur's side afterward.

"Enough. I think we're going to have some fun figuring out how to run this kingdom together, you and me," he answered elliptically, baring his teeth at his primary advisor.

"If you say so," Bedivere acknowledged dubiously; then they reached the throne room, and Arthur set his hands on his hips as he observed the changes.

"Better," he nodded respectfully to Kay and the lads she'd been ordering about. "We have any carpenters about? I've got an idea for what to do in here to change things up."

* * *

The next several days passed much more swiftly; before he knew it Bedivere was setting the crown on his head, and he was raising Excalibur to the cries of everyone who'd flocked to the castle since the battle. It remained to be seen how many of them would remain loyal, but at least he was off to a good start.

He'd seen the hawk watching, as well; and by the time the Mage showed up again in person, he'd decided on a way to deal with the question she represented.

Arthur had one of the pages – an orphan boy, rescued from the Viking's pens – show her to the king's study, then made sure the door was shut behind her before pouring her a goblet of wine. She took the wine, but didn't drink, staring at him with dark, enigmatic eyes.

"Something has changed since the last time I saw you," she said, warily. "You've learned something."

"You could say that," he replied, taking a fortifying sip. Then he came right out and said it: "Morgan."

She didn't bother denying it; a wry, self-deprecating smile curved at the corner of her mouth. "I told you: there are times when we all look away. Who else knows?"

"No one human," he shrugged. He'd tell her about the syrens later, see if there was a way to deal with them that didn't risk exposing too many secrets to an already-shaky kingdom. "I told Bedivere I'd found out I had a sister, and he said they'd all thought you were dead since before our mother married my father. No one else knows even that much."

She sighed, then took a drink. "When I arrived, and no one recognized me – I thought it best not to be a distraction. My power, my position among the mages – enough people would seek to oppose me already, or seek to control you through me. There was no need to complicate things further."

"Or risk _me_ trying to control _you_ ," Arthur pointed out. He remembered her murmuring over Excalibur, trying to figure out why he was having difficulty with it; the vision she'd shared with him, of Igraine falling lifeless into the river. Had that been the only time she could remember seeing their mother, as well? Small wonder she'd held back, seeing what Camelot had taken from her already.

He set his goblet down and held out a hand. "Do you remember that day, when you asked me to hold your hand?"

Morgan took it then, as she had that day only weeks before, when she'd summoned a snake to get him into the castle. "I do," she replied, cautiously.

"The Lady of the Lake told me to trust you," he said; he hadn't told her that before. "Then you told me the venom would show me things I wouldn't see otherwise; things I wouldn't want to see."

"I did," she agreed, a frown wrinkling her brow. "What did you see?"

"Dryads in the woods," he replied, calmly. "Fire in the eyes of men loyal to my uncle. Death, in Vortigern's when he looked at me. And my father, telling me _I_ didn't have to look away anymore, when I took up the Sword again."

She swallowed, hand tightening on his. "Anything else?"

Arthur shook his head, slowly. "Do you know what I didn't see?" He paused for emphasis. "Anything different about _you_."

He trusted her to pick up what he was saying; and she did, taking a shaky breath. Then she relaxed gradually, wariness fading into a warm, luminous smile. "It is hard to know sometimes," she offered after a moment, "what power will do to people. What changes it might bring."

He snorted. "My whole purpose in life, from the time I was big enough to see what other people did with it, was to look after everyone I could protect. I've a few more to take care of now than I was expecting – but I also have people to help me, who have the education and talents I don't. I wanted to ask you if you would be one of them."

"As your sister? Who just so happens to be a mage?" Morgan raised an eyebrow at him, her expression teasing now.

"I'm told there's a castle you ought to own, somewhere?" He shrugged. "And it would stop the folks who've been hinting we ought to marry, now that my cousin's no longer an option. But either way, we'll need a mage visible at the table. We need peace, if we're going to keep the Vikings off us, and whoever comes after them. But how long you stay, and what we tell the others – that's up to you."

"You never know, they still might – we do have the same number of ancestors in common as you and your cousin did," she reminded him, smile widening. "But I take your meaning. The best way to help my people now is to be all of who I am, as you are."

Arthur bowed to her with a flourish, then picked up his goblet again and drained it in one go. "Well, now that that's out the way...."

Morgan laughed, expression lightening; and behind it, somewhere, somehow, he thought he heard the echo of his mother's laughter. "Still think I should have a beard?"

"Watch it, now. Or I might start reminding you of some of the things _you_ said – or did – when we first met," he grinned back.

"Long live the King," she replied brightly, tongue-in-cheek.

Against all odds, through prophecy and war, out of legend and magic, they stood together now: half-brother and sister, carrying two ancient legacies reborn for a new age.

He could only hope that together, they would rise above those legacies to build something better than what had come before.


End file.
